


Culpable

by oponn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Bathing/Washing, F/M, First Time, Masturbation, Masturbation in Bathroom, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Mutually Unrequited, Pining, Teasing, Tropes, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:36:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oponn/pseuds/oponn
Summary: During her time in isolation in the Red Keep, Sansa discovers a way out of her room and spends nights roaming the castle. When she unwittingly gets stuck exploring, she gets trapped with the Hound - who appears to be preparing to bathe. Sansa hides and discovers that sometimes you're just as culpable when you watch something as when you actually participate.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Original Female Character(s), Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 59
Kudos: 218





	Culpable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueSands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueSands/gifts).



Her father used to say that the mountains would yawn if you listened for it. 

The joints of Sansa’s flexed fingers were white and her dainty bare toes were cautious as she edged along the narrow lip of sandstone. Thousands of feet below her, the waves slammed onto jagged black coast and white foam eddied in the troughs of the rocks. It was mere feet along a delicate, decorative ledge before she was to reach the open-air arches of the hallways outside her barred room. 

Up here, a few shrieks above certain death, she knew what her father spoke of and could hear the wide and shallow gasp of the ocean. Normally, birds cried but under the light of the late moon anything that flew through the skies emitted little more than a squeak. 

Sansa had discovered the ledge a week ago, after she’d been locked in her rooms as punishment for what Joffrey had considered ‘cheek’ to one of the Kingsguard. The four days of solitude that followed was merely because he’d been unable to strip and beat her at Court too frequently, so he merely ignored her. 

Sansa was beyond caring; about marriage, about being Queen, about the Courts and silks and courtesies. It had all been poisoned, like the cleanest water with the deadliest of stomach upsets in it. Sansa trusted no one and felt that without someone in her corner, she would be lost. She entertained the idea – long gone were her dreams and aspirations of feeding the slovenly their bread, rearing bright eyed children and being adored by a loving husband. Now, as the future ebbed and swam in front of her eyes and the war drew to a head, she was preparing to let go of her dreams of ever seeing her family again. Perhaps her Lady Mother, with her soft hands and sparkling eyes. Sometimes, Sansa lulled herself to sleep imagining herself curled in her Mother’s lap in front of a fire in the Great Hall, while thick coats of snow pressed against the glass. 

Only sometimes though. 

As the boredom and sadness swirled endlessly in her head for days and moons on end, she felt like she got drunk on it. She’d discovered the ledge while daring herself to straddle the railing of her balcony, just to challenge the Lannister authority. One small slip and she’d plummet to her death with a scream only the seabirds would hear. She hadn’t been able to resist flouting them and their rules. They might lock her in her rooms and dictate when she eats, what she eats, what she wears, when she wears it. When she makes her water, when she may bathe. 

They couldn’t control when she did or did not fall off the Red Keep, though. 

They underestimated how much the constant reminder that she’s worthless traitor scum would make her relish the freedom of the smallfolk and their facelessness. There were only so many beatings she could take before she wondered how bad dying could possibly be. On the balcony, Sansa had found herself looking down at certain doom and felt exhilarated. As the days passed, she stuck her foot farther and farther out until it connected to the ledge. 

The day after that, her fingertips had brushed the stones above it. 

The day after that, she pushed from the railing on the balcony to the ledge with a feral grin before pushing herself back to the balcony. 

The day after that, she clung to the lip and the wall and cheered to herself. She was more like Bran than she’d ever thought she could be and the thrill made her feel alive. The ability to focus so wholly on something other than her circumstances was addicting. 

As the days passed further, she inched further out and then back. 

A half week prior, she’d finally reached the window. With victory and triumph pulsing violently through her veins she peeked through the window and spied the guard outside her room. He was staring ahead and his head was tipped suspiciously, as though he were asleep. His simple presence was enough to have her jerk her head back nervously. She inched back to the balcony and returned to her room, dwelling on the bed about her next move as she realized her sudden but tenuous freedom. 

If she was caught, she had no doubt her next room would be in the black cells and she shuddered at the thought. Worthlessness was thousands of times worse when you were thrown in a black hole to be forgotten about – the real and razor-sharp danger of the meaning. She would have no concept of the world whereas at least now she had night and day; night and day and the ledge. 

Sansa decided to behave herself during the day and wait until she heard the final, grinding scrape that indicated her door had been barred from the outside and her guard shift was over. The Kingsguard who were constantly sentry on the other side of the oak and steel were going to go drink their sorrows away and she silently bade them good riddance. Her isolation had been coupled with a change in rotation – Ser Boros Blount was her morning escort and room inspector now. Ser Kettleblack was there to prod and shove her through Court and dining experiences, even there to nip at her heels when she was bedecked for balls and galas. The Lannisters would trot her out to display their pet Stark and Kettleblack was always there to ensure she parroted her lines. Ser Balon Swann was often assigned during the day to nap against her door and since the wooden bar had been installed, she never saw the only person she didn’t mind seeing. 

She’d lost specific count but it had been nigh on a few weeks since she’d been able to see more of Sandor Clegane than the back of his head from across the Court. He stalked to and fro, looking as menacing and foul at both courtiers and colleagues as ever but every time she felt he sensed her she would avert her eyes in time, so as not to bear the weight of the cold mocking she’d see in his when he caught her. How much she strangely thirsted for his attention and friendship made shame burn under breast and she sought desperately to dampen it. 

The moon was sharp and bright which forced Sansa had to squint into the dim hallway through the window, checking all the shadows nervously with questioning eyes. When nothing moved, she planted her hands on the frame and gently hoisted herself up through the window. Her bare feet barely made a noise as she carefully lowered herself down onto the wide flagstone tiles. The simple dark grey skirts she’d worn were equally noiseless as she dropped them and she glanced around as a new thrill washed over her. 

Where was she to go? 

Obviously, her first impulse was to try to run. Sneak from the castle and blend into the people of King’s Landing, perhaps beg or steal her way into a convoy heading North. If she could get to Harrenhal, she was positive she would be able to find someone to assist her to join with Robb’s army. It seemed simple in her head but as she stole into the shadows and crept down the stairs of the Tower, she knew that it was hopeless and naïve just as she now knew that summer peaches had hard, disgusting pits. Where there was one person willing to help, there were twelve waiting to hurt. 

As she snuck around, her hunched creeping from shadow to shadow gradually relaxed until she was cautiously drifting, like a specter on an errant wind. The halls were empty, silent and dimly lit by sparse torches that flickered in the warm evening air. Crickets and other night bugs could be heard singing from the garden courtyards and Sansa found when the Keep wasn’t filled with marching soldiers and scowling maids that the building was quite pleasant and beautiful in its grandeur. The horror of the day melted into casual acknowledgement at night; the fangs retracted with the absence of prey. 

Sansa could hear by dropping eaves at doorways and peering quietly out windows above the gates that guards remained stationed outside of every external portal and many were within easy view of some of the lower windows. The windows on the external walls were high enough that a fall from one would break the legs, so Sansa observed them and moved on. She found a group of 3 young maids in a wide, brightly lit servants' hallway that led to the lower levels of the Holdfast. They were whispering, giggling and playing some sort of lowborn dice game in a leather dish. Sansa lurked at the end of the hall in the shadows on the other side of the doorway, watching with painfully jealous curiosity. 

Later she discovered some soldiers drinking, joking and shoving each other at the base of and inside the White Sword Tower. They paid her absolutely no mind even when Sansa accidentally walked into their view before she skittered behind a corner with a pounding heart. She watched them awhile as well, blue eyes travelling their faces for any recognition. She listened to their gossip and japes, hoping to pick up any information that might be useful or fun to know. Much of what she heard she didn’t understand and no one she cared to know was talking anyways, so once again she moved off and wandered the various mazes of corridors. Her fingers trailed gently along the stone walls and she paused at every corner and listened and made note of every long tapestry and nook to hide in. 

“Why so late? Why up here?” A woman’s voice complained loudly, drifting around the corner from where Sansa was lurking. She peered, curious. 

A man who looked newly into adulthood was wearing the casual smock of a squire without his armor and he was ambling alongside a maid, who struggled with a large jug. The squire had a jug of equal size in his embrace but seemed to handle it easier. 

“How about you go ask him?” The squire answered all but petulantly and the maid grunted in irritation as they went. 

“So heavy,” She complained again and the squire sighed with open irritation. 

“It’s the last time. We're almost done,” He snapped as he shouldered a heavy, creaking metal door open. Sansa watched him hold the door with his back and the maid lugged her massive vessel in through the entryway. They both disappeared inside and the heavy door seemed to slowly shut itself, even then not fully closing and sounding like it caught on a latch. 

They talked from the inside but Sansa couldn’t make out the words. There was also a pouring noise and then the woman’s tinkling laughter. Just as Sansa leaned out to look at the crack of light coming through the door, the squire yanked it open and appeared carrying both jugs each under one arm. She shrunk back and waited as the woman exited with another breathless giggle. 

“And now the night is ours!” The squire declared in the dimness. Sansa saw the shiny white point of his incisors in his grin when they walked by. The woman seemed to skip beside him, her arm bumping his affably as they disappeared back down the hallway they’d come up as the woman began to plan to go get some wine for them. 

Sansa’s eyes returned to the door and saw it was still not latched; it was barely ajar a sliver of an inch but it was enough she could see candlelight from the inside. She’d not been down this side of the Keep before – there were smaller gardens and many unused, dusty rooms. Sansa listened hard for a few moments for any steps or the drag of robes on stone. She heard the night bugs from the main courtyards and the distant sensible chuckle of gambling men but nothing nearby and nothing dangerous. The curiosity chewed at her ribs like a starving rat and she crept from her hiding spot before she could conclusively decide. It was three easy steps to the door and the latch didn’t have to be lifted. She pressed her hands to the rough wood and pushed it open. It emitted a faint squeak, like it used to shriek all the time before someone oiled it, and Sansa let it shut behind her as she entered. 

The room was small with an unlit but blackened fireplace on the left wall and a small colored glass window across from the door. The wall to her right had large oak shelves, giving the room the air of an unused and long-abandoned office. The lower levels of the shelves had some lit candles on them and in the center of the room was a larger-than-usual copper tub, with steam wicking and roiling off the surface of the still-settling water. A closed lantern was on the floor beside the tub, casting a yellow circle of light. A chair loitered nearby with a drying cloth thrown over the back, a half-empty bottle of red wine and what appeared to be a tarnished goblet. Other than a small wood divider in the left corner of the room for the water closet, there was nothing else but the tub and the chair. 

Sansa decided she was pushing her luck and went to leave, able to recognize the signs of someone about to come take a private bath. As she reached the door, she heard male voices in the hallway outside. Panic flashed through her body like being struck by lightning and her eyes roved the room as the voices got louder. 

“Rotation will change again. Once Moore and Oakheart get back,” A male voice was saying convincingly and Sansa knew by their steps that they had both stopped outside the room. Sansa spun in a panicked circle, hands outstretched as her eyes darted from shadow to shadow. The only place left for her was the water closet, which wasn’t the safest hiding spot. 

The door moved as a heavy hand landed on it and the man outside said, “I’ll leave you to it. We’re almost out of the storm.” 

“That’s what they always say - then it turns out we were in the eye,” A grating, gravelly voice replied as Sansa ran across the room in blind panic, throwing herself into a crouch around the other side of the loosely woven wicker screen. The hand that had been on the door opened it wide and she heard the voice outside bid farewell before moving off completely. A shadow filled the doorway and then the massive body of Sandor Clegane ambled through. He slammed the portal behind him and Sansa watched the door get firmly stuck shut in its frame for the first time. The finality of its closure echoed through her head, meaning her well and truly trapped with the man with perhaps the most monstrous temper in the entire city. Her palms began to sweat as fear and paranoia curdled in her stomach - so much so that she carefully lifted a cupped hand and covered her mouth to stifle her breathing. 

They called this man The Hound and Sansa had personally witnessed him literally sniffing something out before. Her anxiety clamored a frantic alarm in her head, even as her heartbeat filled her ears and she peeped through the divider. 

Clegane was different right now and it took her a few seconds of watching him fiddle with something on the hilt of a knife to realize what it was – he was relaxed. He believed himself completely alone and how he held himself and moved completely changed. His shoulders weren’t drawn up tersely and his face was impassive instead of pulled into a menacing scowl. 

He dropped the knife on the shelf with a clatter that made her wince before he sighed and muttered to himself. He patted himself down and withdrew another dagger, took off his sword belt, retrieved a dangerous looking hunter’s knife from his boot. The weapons hit the shelf one after another until Clegane reached down and snagged the end of his cloak. She watched in wonder as his knowing fingers pulled at the material and then produced yet another dagger from within the lining of his cloak; this knife he also tossed flippantly into the pile of steel on the table. Lastly, she heard the spill of coins on wood in a neat pile, slapped down by a cupped hand. 

He turned to face the tub and Sansa leaned back, pushing further into the shadows behind the screen. He was perfunctory in his movements as he used his feet to toe off his boots while his arms worked to strip his cloak, bundle it carelessly and toss it onto the floor beside the chair. He wore simple spun clothes under his cloak but they were dyed dark. Sansa found herself marvelling at how pale his skin looked in contract against the casual clothes when he pulled on the neck of the shirt and yarded the article over his head, bearing his naked torso. 

Sansa’s mouth went conspicuously dry and her eyes widened, pupils dilating. Southron men were uncannily comfortable with their nakedness under a hot sun and this careless attitude often carried on into the summer styles of dress and even shopping attire. Men were frequently seen shirtless in the city and often children ran around in long tunics rather than pants, regardless of gender or station of birth. All of this meant that this wasn’t the first time Sansa had seen a man shirtless or even naked, as many often bathed in rivers and streams throughout the land. 

It was her first time seeing a man of this size, in this context and it was very much the first time she’d seen The Hound in anything less than full armor. 

The fact that he didn’t seem to shrink in size without his suit made him more dangerous. The simple fact that his size and power was purely due to how thickly muscled and well-honed his body was and not due to the metal-plating he wore shocked her. Sansa felt herself devour his physique hungrily. 

He was tall and stoutly built, with wide slightly furred shoulders and long arms flexing with rippling muscle when he moved them. His barrel chest was also darkly furred and she could see the bunches of abs and the long muscle that ran down the side of his ribs as he bent and pulled what looked like socks off. 

Aside from the shadows cast by the deep troughs at his hips, leading tantalizingly downwards, he was also a roadmap of brutal discipline and violence. His burns boiled and whorled his skin all the way down past the left nipple on his chest; the flesh was waxy, red and purple in some places. It didn’t move the same over his muscle as the skin on the other side of his chest did and also disappeared over his shoulder. When Clegane turned and put his back to the screen, Sansa’s eyes coasted over his broad back with shock. There were many long, puckered lines with countless other faint white lashes to the point where his tanned skin was pale in some places. She could see the rounded or teardrop pits from arrows puncturing his flesh and could clearly see what looked like a jagged knife wound mid-back towards the right side of his flank. It had obviously been sewn shut by someone inexperienced and there were parts that had overlapped and others that had been bagged open and scarred over with violent purple bundles of tissue. As she looked at it, she decided that it was more than inexperience that left that wound so terribly patched – she would have put money that Sandor himself stitched it without use of a mirror. Something horrified and sad recoiled at that thought and she glanced up at the man’s turned head with more respect than pity. 

Then, he dropped his britches. 

Sansa goggled like her brain was suddenly a young deer on a frozen lake as Clegane bent down to pick up the pants he’d just stepped out of. His legs were also adorned with the same carpet of thick dark hair that was attempting to hide swaths of hard thigh and flexing calves. His hips appeared to somehow also be muscled and thick, despite more red scars and thick red gashes. 

The rear that Sansa was staring harder at than she’d ever stared at anything in her life. Her chest felt hot and she shifted in place, too transfixed to heed the blare of alarm in her head. Her nipples gathered by themselves under her dress, adding to her discomfort as she breathed as shallowly as possible. 

Sansa had always known bums to be soft pans of flesh but Sandor Clegane had what appeared to be the opposite. His rear was round and pale, the cleft darkened with yet more hair but the sides of it pulled in as he stood and moved his weight, the hardline use of muscle over the rest of his body no different here. Her lips quirked slightly when she spied a large divot in the flesh at the top of his right cheek; it appeared an arrow had lodged itself there at some point. Sansa enjoyed knowing that someone had shot an arrow and hit him in the rear, it made his threats more amusing. The Hound was a big man but not a lithe one – he was a wall of pure muscle and reminded her of the statues of the Warrior in the Sept. How obtuse and grand she’d assumed that statue to be; after all, the succulent curves and beauty of the Maiden were impossible standards to aspire to. 

And yet here was this fearsome man with a monstrous temper walking around with a bum like the Warrior incarnate. Sansa bit her lip as he turned around and she got a view of the resting cock that hung thickly from his body in a shock of black hair. 

Sansa grew up with brothers; she’d seen penises before, as all boys seemed to find them the ultimate joke. This was the first time she’d seen what her brain now mentally dubbed a cock - it was both intimidating and thrilling at the same time. A heat had lit in her body and felt as if it were seething through her nerves and pooling in her lower belly, demanding attention. She pressed her hand against her mouth again, in case she breathed loudly enough he heard her or worse - smelled her. 

Clegane ambled to the tub, cock in full view, dipping his hand into the hot water. He seemed to wince a bit before he straightened and Sansa watched him use his now wet hand to grab the soft appendage between his legs. Her eyes widened in shock behind the screen even as her skin felt like it lit with small coils of lightning. The heat in her belly pulled into a warm sensation that she felt echoed between her own legs with growing embarrassment. 

Clegane let out a small hiss and Sansa watched as his large fingers moved over himself, pulling and tugging at the gentle flesh with what appeared to be impatience. As she watched, he responded to himself and she watched him grow until he was long and she could see the veins as his fist passed over the shaft. When she chanced a glance at his face, his mouth was flat and his eyes were narrowed but his expression was both lax and concentrated. 

He stopped when his prick was proud and purple, trying to jut away from his thighs at an angle it was too heavy to achieve. Sansa felt something akin to an unsettled deer, both wanting to remain in place and also wanting to run. Which way she wanted to run, she did not know. She found as she watched him touch himself and observed the delicate flicker of emotions run across his face, she wanted to leave him and never let him know she’d witnessed him so. The other part of her wanted to bury her burning shame and lean into how wild she felt – her lips parted, her breath sped up, her belly jumping and her thighs pressing and rubbing together to attempt to relieve the sudden annoying pressure built between her legs. She felt like she wanted to touch him, to share in the same moments that she knew he took only for himself. 

She didn’t know how to relieve him of his pressure but found herself wildly thinking that it wouldn’t be hard to figure it out – she was very good at learning. Another voice in her head that sounded eerily like a younger version of Septa Mordane said she had to get her head on straight – she was in dizzying danger right now. 

There was a sudden, sharp knock on the door and Sansa nearly shrieked with shock. Clegane paused for a moment, turning his head to listen for the barest of moments before he moved behind the door and jerked it open a few inches to peer out. Then, he stepped back and opened the door wider to let a woman in a cloak with the hood drawn up into the room. 

She slipped past him and walked in, lingering in the space between Clegane and the tub that Sansa had as he attempted to shut the door. When it wouldn’t latch, he slammed it into the frame again before looking at the woman, who had turned to face him. 

“20 Gold Dragons,” A thin, girlish voice came from underneath the hood. 

Clegane regarded her, his nostrils flaring before he rasped, “Denni was 16.” 

“Denni doesn’t fit the part,” The woman replied flippantly, seemingly nonplussed that this man was so big and naked with a flagging erection. He seemed to peer at her again and Sansa could see his brain thinking, weighing the differences. The discomfort of witnessing a whore’s business was paled when the girl pulled her hood back and they both saw the fall of bright red hair. 

Something inside Sansa went very still, like prey spying a predator stalking them in the woods. 

There was a noise that she belatedly realized was Clegane taking a long, slow inhale as he looked the girl over. Finally, he swallowed noticeably and nodded once as he grunted, “20.” 

“It seems you’re ready,” The woman said, her hand reaching out and her fingertips brushing the thick head of his cock. He stepped away from her, his eyes flashing as he said, “I was.” 

With that, he prowled past her and the woman turned away from the tub as he stepped into it and sat down. As she did, Sansa saw her face and caught the exaggerated roll of the woman’s eyes. She walked towards the water closet where Sansa hid and Sansa shrunk back, panic growing like moss on the inside of her ribcage. She stopped just on the other side, her face blank and unconcerned as she removed her cloak and slung it over the top of the divider. The hood draped over the other side, dangling to the right of Sansa’s round eyes, before the woman turned around and walked back to the center of the room. 

Clegane watched her, his expression angry and sullen but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care as she cocked her hips and put her fists on them. 

“She told you?” Clegane asked shortly and the whore nodded confidently before he lifted his hand from the water and waved it as he rasped, “You can start.” 

The woman dropped the hands from her hips and for a moment said nothing. Sansa couldn’t see her face but could see Sandor watching it before the woman chirped, “Ser, I’ve been sent to bathe you.” 

“Who sent you?” Clegane rasped, his dark eyes glittering in the candlelight. The woman took two halting steps towards the tub, her fists grabbing the materials of her skirts in a very convincing display of nerves. 

“The King, m’lord,” The woman said. Sansa frowned just before Clegane shook his head. He was looking hard at her as he absently corrected, “Ser.” 

“The King, Ser,” The woman parroted immediately and Sansa took a purposeful but shaky inhale. He beckoned her closer with the same hand he’d lifted earlier; she complied with only two additional steps. 

“The King is just,” Clegane growled in a voice that said he didn’t believe at all what he said. The woman nodded, her hair falling in front of her as she lowered her head and chastely repeated, “The King _is_ just, Ser.” 

“You want to please the King?” 

“It is my greatest wish to serve him,” The woman said earnestly before she added, “Ser.” 

Sansa wrinkled her nose. 

“Stop your damn chirping. Do what you’re bid,” Clegane warned the woman with a grossly familiar wariness. Sansa’s skin rioted with goosebumps as he did so, the tone and words in his voice so casually familiar; it was how he spoke to _her_. There was less and less she could do to convince herself that she wasn’t seeing what she was seeing and if she was, that she was wrong. The heat in her belly throbbed, the discomfort of arousal between her legs echoing it and Sansa pressed the heel of her free hand down on the mound above her own groin. Unsurprisingly, it did nothing to relieve any pressure. 

The woman moved to the tub and lifted the bottle of wine, pouring it into the goblet before she set the jug on the ground and offered Clegane the cup. He took it and Sansa watched him down the entire thing in two gulps, some wine escaping and running through his beard and down his throat in a thin red line. The woman pulled the chair out and seated herself on the very edge of it. Clegane’s other hand rose out of the water and offered her a round of waxy-looking soap, which she took. 

Sansa watched curiously, having never given anyone who wasn’t a new babe a bath. Washing a grown man as powerful as Clegane seemed oddly intimate and she leaned closer to the screen to get a better look as the woman used her hands to magically spin the soap between her palms into a thick lather. Sansa was never able to do that, but her maids were very good at it. 

Then, the woman whispered just loud enough for Sansa to hear from her place, “Can I touch you, Ser?” 

Clegane looked up at her, his face twisted into something Sansa couldn’t place. It looked sad, morose but also hungry – like a dog unsure if the food being offered was going to get him kicked. Then, he nodded once and hung the arm holding the goblet off the side of the tub. 

The woman’s fingers sunk into his dry hair, leaving scrapes of suds in its wake. Then she scooped hot water and scrubbed at his scalp, repeating the motion until his hair was soaked and soaped completely. Then, she leaned over the edge of the tub and began what from Sansa’s vantage point looked like trying to crush the Hound’s skull. 

Clegane moaned and the sound soared around the room and seared itself on the inside of Sansa’s brain, her gasp muffled by her own fingers. Her body seemed to respond to his sound, her nipples painfully tight and chest hitched. Sansa pressed her thighs together again and clenched muscles that she suddenly noticed were deep inside her. 

The woman hummed, the noise halfway between a slight moan and one of approval. She continued to scrub at his scalp, even as Clegane’s head tipped back and his eyes closed. The woman’s washing moved down Clegane’s neck and out to do his shoulders, passing gently over the suntanned and burned skin that shone with the bathwater. Eventually, he sat up completely in the tub as she soaped up her hands once more. Sansa watched with growing jealousy as the woman stood and ran her hands down his back, swiped great circles up his flanks and then allowed him to sit back again as she spread her thin fingers wide over the plates of his chest. 

While the woman proceeded to wash his chest, Sansa watched Clegane’s eyes as they traveled from her hands, up her arms. As his chest hair was spun into soapy whorls, Sansa watched him openly enjoy the cleavage near his face. Then, the hand not dangling a goblet out the side of the bath rose and his finger slid into the loose curl on the end of one of her tendrils of hair. His face was soft and his eyes glittered but not in the same threatening way they normally did. The red strands clung to his wet digit and he wound it around his finger almost wonderingly. 

To her credit, the woman either didn’t notice or pretended not to as she moved down his stomach. Her hands disappeared beneath the surface for a moment and suddenly, Clegane hissed and jerked in the water. 

“Fuck,” He snarled and the woman ripped her hands out as she gasped, “I’m sorry, Ser. I was washing-,” 

“The fuck you were, grabbing me like that,” Clegane snarled at her and Sansa watched a genuine blush spread over the woman’s cheeks and chest, her breaths now coming in pants that highlighted her cleavage. 

“The King told me to wash you, Ser,” The woman whimpered at him and Clegane’s gaze was furious but calculating as he looked up at her. Her wrist was seized in his free hand and the appendage curled meekly in on itself. 

“Why? You never said what you did,” He snarled in her face, his rasping tenor sounding harsh and guttural. The woman’s eyes, which Sansa could now see were brown, filled with convincing tears. 

“I didn’t please him much, Ser,” She answered Clegane timidly. Sansa cocked her head to the side, a thin line appearing between her brows as she suddenly felt offended. 

“Your solution is to come in here and molest me?” 

“I thought maybe I could learn, Ser. Maybe you could teach me,” The woman answered him softly, sounding breathless. Sansa resisted rolling her eyes. Sandor also looked like he hadn’t bought it, his eyes levelling with the woman’s as he said, “I think you’re better off learning fairness.” 

“Fairness?” The woman repeated questioningly. 

Clegane’s gaze fell to her breasts and the woman looked down at her chest before she looked at him with a coquettish innocence as she asked, “Don’t you think the King would be angry?” 

“Would offending me not offend him?” 

The woman bit her lip nervously, playing up how agonized she looked even as her hands lifted to the lacing of her top. Her dainty fingers undid the small knot there and she unwound the top, letting the loosened cotton fall free to reveal her breasts and their dusky caps. Hers were larger than what Sansa knew she had but the color was scantly different. Sansa watched the woman pull her wrist upwards until Clegane’s loose grasp let go, only for her to ensnare his hand and press it to her left breast. 

He didn’t need much coaxing, his hand coming alive to fondle her. Sansa watched his fingers, so used to violence and death, pinch and roll the woman’s nipple and felt the burning want for him to do it to her. She idly cupped her own breast, giving it a faint squeeze before Clegane pitched forward and she watched the peak disappear into his mouth. 

The woman’s gentle cry covered Sansa’s own breathy choke. 

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she watched him completely savage the woman’s breasts with his mouth while she sighed and mewled above him, holding his soapy head to her. His hand was where his mouth wasn’t and his eyes were closed. Sansa watched him tease her other nipple with the very tip of his tongue before using his lips on it. Her skin felt as if it sighed; she desperately wanted it for herself. 

He pulled away and his breathlessness translated to harshness as he demanded, “What do you know of pleasure?” 

“Only my own, ser,” The woman answered him as she fell back into the chair, her wet breasts heaving in their display. 

“Show me,” Clegane rasped and he sounded so depraved that Sansa shivered in place, shifting her legs again. There was a depthless dark want blooming from the burning fire in her belly and she watched them with desperate eyes, unsure of what it was she needed but knowing it was more than she had. If she were to be discovered, he would scream his rage but as she watched him look at this woman with open, savage hunger on his face she also questioned if that would be true. 

Or if he’d look at her that way, especially when he knew it to be truly her. The thought was viciously thrilling. 

Suddenly, she understood why she wanted him to look at her in Court. She knew why she looked for the shimmer of his dark eyes and thirsted for them to linger on her face. It was the reason why she wished for him to escort her places and why she longed to impress him and make him see her as something other than the ‘ _Little Bird’._

As he looked at this woman, Sansa was overcome with a sudden angry urge to send her out of the room. This wasn’t for _her;_ it was for Sansa. For the first time Sansa realized she wanted it, whatever it was. 

She wanted him to look at her as he looked at this woman now – delirious, hungry, possessive, consuming; her fear of him at some point had mutated into an attraction to his power, which is what had made her afraid of him in the first place. 

The Hound had disappeared underneath the surface of the bath and then popped back up with a loud splash, the soap rinsed from his hair. He cleared the water from his face with his hands and then fished off the side of the tub, snaring the wine bottle to refill his goblet. The redhead on the chair leaned back, putting both her heels up on the edge of the seat of the chair. 

She was biting her lip and looking unsure but Clegane took a drink from his goblet and sat back in the bath with what looked like an expectant look. 

“I thought you knew your own,” He shot at her. 

“I’ve never had an audience, Ser,” The woman replied and Clegane seemed to break the trance by snorting derisively, which earned him a dirty look from the woman on the chair as he took another healthy drink. Sansa, on the other hand, was lost. 

“I’m no Ser,” He said absently, the conviction and ire gone from the declaration. The woman flashed him a wry grin that he narrowed his eyes at before she reached down and pulled her skirts up. She wore no underpants or shift and the way her legs were positioned showed off the very place Sansa hadn’t even seen on herself in the most profane, blunt way. 

Sansa’s shocked gasp was once again covered by a staggered groan that tore itself from Clegane’s throat. He moved closer to the edge of the tub as the woman said, “When I’m alone, I do this.” 

Sansa watched her small fingers slink through her folds and pause near the top, two of her middle fingers expertly moving in small swirls through the flesh. Sansa most definitely did _not_ do that when she was alone but the pitched moan from the Hound made her hips unconsciously flex. She found herself wondering – should she? 

The whore had angled her hips so Clegane could get a better view and it just barely obscured Sansa’s, now using both her hands as Clegane let out a throaty groan and hissed, “Yes. Two now.” 

The woman moaned and Sansa let out a shaky breath, raking both her hands through her hair with stress. Her body was fizzing, like the water that rose to the surface hissing after a big person plunged into it. Her chest felt hot and the heat climbed up to her face and she could feel how reddened her cheeks were. She closed her eyes and tried to take a silent, steadying breath but it was interrupted by the sound of something being lifted out of the water and then the woman whimpering at the same time the Hound made another soft grunt. 

Her eyes sprung open and she looked again, unable to stop herself. The Hound was leaning back in the tub with his left hand reached out, disappearing under the woman’s skirts as she continued doing whatever it was she was doing. His expression was slack and astonished, the lips parted slightly and any hint of menace forgotten as he watched what the girl did and seemed to be attempting to help. Shock pulsed through her system as his other hand was under the water of the tub, the stiff and repetitive jerky movements of his submerged arm highlighting what he was doing to himself as he stared between this woman’s legs. 

Sansa would be horrified if the woman wasn’t moaning the way she was and Clegane’s face wasn’t a wreckage of amazement and veneration; pinched in what looked like the most enjoyable pain. 

Sansa reached between her legs and cupped herself, feeling her own heat against her fingers through the material of her skirts. Pressing on everything made pangs of faint pleasure between her legs, catching her breath and exciting her brain. 

“Do you do this often?” Clegane asked hoarsely, his voice laconic and rough. 

“Yes, ser,” The woman moaned, her arms still moving just as Clegane’s was. Sansa watched his arm and the pattern it was making, how his bicep bunched and released with every stroke. 

“Sandor,” He interrupted suddenly, his eyes hooded. “Call me Sandor.” 

Sansa quickly shoved a hand against her mouth the muffle her whimper. The woman was rocking her hips and her moans were longer and sounded more like she was in pain even as he hissed his encouragement again. 

“Do you do this after Court?” He asked sharply. 

“Yes Sandor,” The woman moaned. His arm moved faster and something akin to pain flickered across his face. Sansa rocked her hips, this time the way the woman was, and pressed her hand up against her entire slit, enjoying the faint pangs again. It was easier to chase them with this motion and chase Sansa did. 

“Do you do this after you pray?” 

“Yes Sandor.” 

“Touch yourself in the Godswood?” Clegane demanded roughly as Sansa began rocking against her own hand in time with how he moved his under the water. Her breathing was coming faster and her own lips had parted as she watched him, imagining herself on the chair. 

“Yes Sandor.” 

“Gods. You spend afternoons in your bed like this?” 

“Yes Sandor,” The woman panted, the small hairs on her forehead now stuck to her sweaty skin. Her eyes were fluttering open and shut and she was developing the same drunk expression, with her lower lip disappearing between her teeth when she keened. 

“You do this in your bath after your maids leave?” 

“Yes Sandor.” 

“Do you do this at night?” 

“Yes - yes, Sandor,” The woman whimpered and Sansa could see her legs shaking. She was chewing her lower lip in between answering him and shuddering, shaky cries were coming in between her words. Sandor’s arm went faster and Sansa’s hips pressed harder. 

“Do you do this before I bring you places?” He all but whispered. 

“Yes, yes, yes, yes – San..Sandor,” The woman panted and Sansa pressed two fingers harder against her covered quim, rocking on what felt like a beam of colors that tensed her body like a bowstring. Clegane was panting audibly, the water moving with his strokes and echoing around the room. 

“Do you think about me?” 

_Yes Sandor,_ Sansa answered blindly in her head as the woman cried the words aloud, both of them writhing in place. 

“Come for me,” He demanded harshly, his pants rough and his voice pure gravel. His eyes were trained between her legs and his hand was moving faster than Sansa could rock and she wanted to cry out in frustration. 

The woman let out a short squeal that bled into a stuttered whine and Clegane let out a long, low groan. His eyes stayed open and trained where he’d been looking but his body seized and the tendons in his neck flexed, his mouth falling open before his eyes slid closed. Then there was a series of small shudders before he was still. All that filled the room was panting and the steady dripping of water off of something. 

Sansa was on fire, her breasts heaving in her dress and her heart thrumming like a hummingbird in a cage but she immediately stayed put. 

After a few moments, the woman lowered her legs to the floor, wiped her hands on her bodice and brushed her skirts out before she stood and used her fingers to comb out her hair. Clegane was watching through eyes that were barely open. Sansa shrunk back again, eyes wider this time as the woman approached the screen and took her cloak off, the material sliding loudly over the top. 

“The gold is on the shelf,” Clegane announced shortly as she put her cloak on and drew the hood up. She nodded wordlessly and went to the shelf, scraping the coins and spiriting them to a pocket in her cloak where they jingled pleasantly. She moved to the door and hesitated, turning to face him. 

“Your number is 7. You just need to send a letter with your number, location and time,” The woman said quietly as Clegane hauled himself to his feet, water cascading everywhere as he stepped from the tub and picked up a drying cloth. He shook his head. 

“Won’t need further services.” 

“Wh - was I not good?” She demanded with outrage and he shrugged as he dried his arms and chest. 

“I can remember things. I don’t need a reputation,” Clegane rumbled as he reached down to militantly dry his legs. Sansa watched with fascination, awed by the way he bent and moved so freely and how his thighs flexed as he balanced; she wondered if they flexed so when he fucked and bit her lip. The woman in the hood watched him, her face still locked in anger and that seemed to alert him as he finished his legs and stood to his full height. 

“I’d hate to have to hunt you and your friend Denni down if someone should get the wrong idea,” Clegane threatened with a growl and a dark look of petulance passed over her face before she rolled her eyes. 

“Another castle man who thinks his fantasies should be secret,” She sniped but Clegane took two steps toward her and growled, “It can be the reason you get paid or the reason you get killed. Your choice.” 

She leveled him with a sour look before she snapped, “Until you’re desperate again, Hound.” 

Then she wrenched the door open and disappeared. He watched her go for a moment before he kicked the door shut and finished drying himself. Just as Sansa started to worry he might come over to make use of the water closet, he simply shoved his legs in his britches and then donned his shirt. 

He snuffed the lantern before he put his boots on. Sansa waited, her breath all but held and her legs shaking, her crotch uncomfortably warm and wet. She could still feel her heartbeat and the urge to rock her hips and she longed to be free of here without discovery. 

The show he made of putting every knife, dagger and sword back on his body had her eyes coursing down over his form again, tracing the width of his shoulders and the bunched round of the buttcheek he leaned his weight into as he fiddled with his sword belt. Now that she’d seen him naked, it was as if she could see through his clothes and the realization was powerful. Clegane blew out each candle on the shelf, and then lumbered back towards the bath to scoop up the bottle of wine. He shook it and seemed satisfied with the answering slosh from within so he tucked it under his arm. 

She desperately hoped he wouldn’t slam the door after himself, as she wasn’t quite confident that she’d be able to pry it open once it was stuck in its frame. He opened it and strode out with little care, letting the door rattle against the latch as it fell shut behind him. 

Sansa waited, listening to his feet retreat down the hall outside before she lowered her hand from her mouth and let out a long, shaky exhale. She struggled up from her hiding spot, stretching her limbs gingerly and raking her fingers through her hair again as she stared at the now empty tub and canted chair. She could see her pale reflection in the puddles of water the Hound had left on the floor and suddenly everything she’d seen felt so surreal. 

“I have to get out of here,” She whispered to herself urgently and crept to the door, peering out the crack before pulling it open again and peeking into the hallway. The halls were still dimly lit and empty and she stole from the room and rushed down the hallway to crouch behind the statue from earlier. When nothing happened and Clegane himself didn’t seize her from behind in a darkened shadow, she fled. 

Her skirts were lifted and balled in her hands as she ran as quickly and silently as she could, making sure to stop her bare feet from slapping the flagstone. She paused only at major hall breaks and courtyards, craning her neck before she would flit from shadow to shadow and hiding place to hiding place. The stairs up the Tower were harder and she struggled to climb them at the same speed she wanted without openly panting. Once she got to her hallway, she checked for a guard and saw nothing but the barred door, with the archways beyond it. 

She paused when she reached the windows, her arms and legs still jelly-like from fear, cramped crouching and arousal. Suddenly, the drop down onto the surf below was much more intimidating and her tummy bunched in knots when she slung a leg over the frame of the archway and reached down with her toes, looking for the delicate ledge. 

Sansa sucked in a breath and lowered herself onto the ledge before she reached for the small ridges and gives in the stones. She inched back as quickly as she could without slipping, keeping her eye trained on the deck and not on the depthless nothing below. When her hands grasped the railing and she hauled herself over, Sansa let her body flop onto the redstone floor of her balcony where she lay gasping as she stared up at the stars. 

Her brain played her images – Clegane's flexing bum, his long and scarred torso, how intensely he watched everything – before it dissolved into playing her memories of him touching himself and how destroyed he looked doing so. 

She shivered and an almost painful clench of arousal pulsed through her at the thought. 

_Gods, you spend your afternoons in bed like this_ whispered across her mind in the Hound’s voice and she thought of her bed inside and all its luxurious trappings. No, the animalistic urge that had lit in her demanded something more depraved, more vulgar. She saw the woman calmly spreading her legs, pulling up her skirts and baring her slit to Clegane’s hungry eyes and Sansa sat up with determination on her face. She crawled over and put her back to the wall of the balcony, facing out towards the ocean. It felt both freeing and like spitting in the face of the Gods, bringing her knees up and pulling her skirts to bunch around her waist. She planted her feet and imagined Sandor Clegane sitting on the stone bench across from her, his eyes dark and his lips parted. 

Her hands roamed, first pinching a nipple through her dress as he’d done and then running down and up her thighs nervously. She applied a hand to her bare sex and rolled her hips, finding it less effective than when her thighs were closed. She remembered the woman’s fingers and her own followed suit as she quested through her own folds. 

The wetness she thought she’d felt was staggering – it coated her fingers liberally and she found it helped her move over the sensitive flesh. When she coaxed the bud of her clit and was rewarded with a sharp chime of pleasure, she spasmed and gasped, _“_ _Oh!”_

She continued exploring herself, even jamming her lips together to suppress a moan as she found the dip that allowed her finger to sink into herself. It was less amazing than she wanted, there was something missing from it and it felt overwhelming at the same time. She found she favored the strums of sensation from above better. However, her brain showed her Clegane with his hand outstretched and she imagined him using one large, thick finger to push into her as she did to herself and she realized exactly where his hand had been and moaned. 

She didn’t know what she’d seen them do but whatever they’d achieved seemed to be what drove her now, what sent her hurdling through sensation after sensation. It was what made her fingers work herself, pulling little sparks of _yes_ with each circle of her finger and feeling Clegane’s gaze on her. It was hungry and consuming and she felt like she burned with desire that only he could extinguish. She wanted more but didn’t know what she needed more of and was unaware of the series of breathless whimpers that she let out as she imagined him leaning forward and taking one of her breasts in his mouth. Sansa panted, desperate and reaching through the ever-increasing need that touching herself seemed to build as her imaginary Hound laved her breasts, sucked on her nipples and kissed down her belly. She imagined him watching what she was doing with fascination, inches away and then leaning forwards and sticking out his tongue. It touched her flesh just as the crescendo of pleasure peaked and her brain flooded with white, while her shoulders and body fluttered against the wall she leaned against. 

_"Yes_ _S-Sandor,"_ Sansa moaned breathlessly, trying desperately to hold onto his image as it was wiped away. Then it was over and she slumped to the side, rolling onto her back once more to pant at the sky. Her ears rang loudly with a faint bell that was higher than one she’d ever heard before and she was overcome with a wave of deliriousness that elicited a confused series of giggles in between her breaths. 

She understood now. 

All of it. 

Cocks and quims and the politics of their joining, what all the fuss was about, what the big secret was. She’d figured it out now and suddenly, it was all so much more brilliant. It had never occurred to her that women could enjoy copulating too, it was always presented as something she would have to endure for the honor of bearing children. 

When her breathing evened out slightly and the sweat that she hadn’t noticed built up on her skin started to cool and chill in the night air, Sansa rolled over and got to her feet to stumble inside her room. She sat at her vanity table and used a basin of water and a rag to wash the black off the bottoms of her feet. Ladies stuck in their private quarters for days on end did not have black feet and surely one of the maids would take note and report it to the Queen. 

Once her feet were clean, Sansa dumped the water off the balcony and stashed the rag before climbing into bed. She expected to lay awake with her mind racing but there was an eerie relaxed calm that was climbing through her body and she found as soon as she was stripped to her shift and slipped beneath the covers, she fell asleep immediately. 

. 

. 

“Do you think they will have bell figs at the welcome feast?” 

“Do Dornish men need the help of figs?” 

The maids exchanged looks over Sansa’s head before falling into a fit of giggles over an inside joke that Sansa was aware she wasn’t supposed to be privy to. She said nothing, staring forward at the wall while they talked and gossiped, three people attached to her head as they pinned the series of braids they’d made into an elaborate up-do. 

She winced when one secured a pin that dug deeply into her scalp, just as they stepped back to admire their work. 

“You’d be beautiful if it weren’t for that scowl on your face. Your Septa should have taught you better than that,” One of the older women who served as one of Sansa’s maids observed. Ultimately, all these women worked directly for Cersei Lannister and Sansa dared not find confidence in any of them. 

“Too right - I should have her admonished when they bring her head down from the Traitor’s Walk,” Sansa commented absently. She allowed the darkness of her words to staunch the false merriment from the women around her and it worked a trick, with the smiles falling off of all their faces. 

Instead, they all stopped talking and began cleaning up their accoutrements and tools that they lugged along with them for her beautification. Three loud side-fisted bangs issued forth from Sansa’s door, causing all the women to jump and titter. 

“Let Ser Blount in before he bashes the door off its hinges please,” Sansa instructed with a wan smile as one of the women hastened to the door and opened it. She squeaked as she did so, because as soon as the door was free from its latch it was forcibly pushed open. 

Sansa’s heart stilled in her chest as she looked into her vanity mirror and saw Sandor Clegane standing in the doorway behind her. She stopped picking at her hair and turned in her seat to look at him as he glared at all the women. They quickly picked up their things and skirted from the room around him as Sansa watched. He took time to glower at each one as she slunk by before he turned his gaze to Sansa. 

She noticed it gentle ever so slightly before it snapped back into its usual dispassionate state. 

“What happened to Ser Blount?” She asked and refused to quail under his flat gaze. 

“Rotation. Grow fond of him?” Clegane grumped and Sansa shook her head as she said, “Quite the opposite actually. Them being here and you being here means Joffrey has sent for me.” 

Clegane nodded and Sansa’s heart sank, her stomach coiling into a knot. She inhaled deeply and left the vanity, nodding at him as she moved to the door and sighed, “Best we go then.” 

He allowed her to approach him and as she did so, it felt like a heat blazed from his body. She was so aware of his proximity it felt like she was physically touching him, feeling his gaze move down the side of her neck. She could smell him as she walked by – whetstone, sharp coffee and something else unmistakably male that she’d noticed before but never quite placed as him. It painted a picture of him drinking his coffee, sharpening one of the of four weapons she knew he had hidden on his person at all times. Her brain helpfully played her a memory of him moaning as he spasmed in the bath and a familiar throb of heat started between her legs. 

They moved out into the halls and Sansa walked ahead of him, with Clegane just at her elbow and every nerve in her body aware of it. As they passed maids and hands, guards and maester assistants she found she liked having this secret, even as it ate her up inside. She wanted to touch him, brush her fingers over his or reach up to touch the unburnt side of his face. 

As they walked, she dreamed of Clegane snaring her hand and dragging her to an ill-used room to seal his mouth over hers. It would be ardent and delicious, the wrongness of the exchange and she shivered as she walked. 

Clegane noted but mistook the goosebumps rising on her arms as fear. Sansa debated crossing them to hide the show of her nipples through the gown. 

“He’s in a good mood. It shouldn’t be bad. He won a battle, probably wants to gloat,” The Hound told her shortly in what she assumed he thought to be a reassuring voice. Sansa resisted the unladylike action of snorting. 

“Only emotional pain today,” She said, quietly but flippantly. Clegane’s pace slowed for a brief second beside her before he made a noise akin to a snort and asked, “What do you know of pain?” 

“Only my own,” Sansa answered before she could stop herself. The guards were more plentiful the nearer to the Throne Room they got, and more visitors and smallfolk were milling about the entrance halls. Clegane said nothing but when she glanced up at him out of the corner of her eyes, she could see his eyes were hard and flat and focused on nothing in the distance, his jaw tensed. Her pulse hitched and a thrill coursed through her diaphragm as they walked down a side corridor so she could enter to the side and hopefully avoid Joffrey’s gaze altogether. 

Sansa fought a dumb smirk, the temptation to allude and pick at him irresistible. They stopped at the door and Clegane’s face was noticeably impassive. He took a few steps back, speaking from behind her as he began to drift back down the Hall. 

“I will collect you here once he releases Court,” He announced tersely and Sansa nodded, not able to help the small smirk as her cheeks reddened. 

He turned his back on her and began to lumber away before she quietly said, “Yes Sandor.” 

His footsteps stopped dead. 

Sansa pushed the door open without looking back at him, joining the noble crowd and leaving Sandor Clegane standing alone in the corridor completely frozen. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) this work dedication is for someone who dutifully reads anything. it's not sappy and romantic but i tried to add s p i c e.  
> 2) i asked a beta group for a beta and no one replied so its still JUST ME and all errors are mine. i americanized all the words though and dropped the 'u', so i'm doing god's work  
> 3) formatting errors are transfer issues i am trying thank u  
> 4) i don't want to get into a pedantic argument with anyone so we're not going on about ages but sansa is naive and thirstily learning at the speed of light and everything is fine in this fanfiction world here, okay? okay.  
> 5) i don't even know where i would go with this so i have no plans to continue it. if you would like to please feel free and let me know because i'm a nosy b and would love to read it
> 
> PLEASE leave me your thoughts, opinions, reactions, corrections, etc etc ~ 
> 
> ok bye


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